


Embrace the Deception

by dontpickupthephone (ablondeweasley)



Category: Psych, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura is the Captain, Alternate Universe - Psych, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Hunk is Gus, Japanese Keith (Voltron), Keith and Shiro are Siblings, Keith is Lassiter, Lance is Shawn, M/M, hunk and lance are childhood friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-05 15:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14047263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ablondeweasley/pseuds/dontpickupthephone





	Embrace the Deception

1990

“You finished all your homework?” Lance’s dad is still in his uniform, sweaty from his shift.  
They’re cramped in a booth in the diner, with Lance’s dad across from Lance, Sofia, and Isabella. Isabella’s slurping on a sundae and Sofia’s nibbling on a cupcake. Lance’s hands are empty.

“Yup,” Lance eyes the desserts on the counter a few feet away. Hopefully, his hands won’t be empty much longer, “Can I have the fudge cake?”

Lance’s dad drums his fingers on the table. “Close your eyes.”

“Ugh, Papi, I don’t wanna—”

“Now.”

Lance groans, but complies, placing his hands on his temples the way Professor Xavier does in his comic books. (Or rather, Hunk’s comic books. Lance’s dad doesn’t like comic books; he’d rather have Lance read about the real heroes: police officers.)

“Which letter is out in the exit sign, Leandro?”

“The ‘x’.”

Isabella’s reached the bottom of her glass but won’t give up. 

“Dios, can you cut that out, Bella?”

“No, Isabella, keep slurping. Leandro needs to be able to concentrate under all circumstances.”

Lance groans again.

“What color is the vinyl, Leandro?”

“What’s vinyl?”

Sofia’s finished her cupcake. “Coño,” she giggles under her breath.

“Watch your language, Sofia,” Lance’s dad returns his attention to his son. “Vinyl’s the stuff these seats are covered in.”

“Oh—purple.”

“Maroon. Close enough.”

Lance feels Sofia shift in her seat.

“Manager’s name,” Lance’s dad continue.

“Who? C’mon, Papi—“  
“She’s wearing a name tag. The woman who was standing at the door when we first walked in. You saw her.”

Lance thinks back to when they came in the door. The neon sign, Isabella’s bouncing backpack, the woman’s yellow dress—

“Marie. Can I have the cake now?”

Lance’s dad leans closer. “How many hats?”

Lance lets out a frustrated huff, “Come on, Papi.”

“Do you want a piece of cake or not? How. Many. Hats?”

“Does a beanie count?” Lance massages his temples.

“What do you think?”

“Three.”

“Okay. Describe them.”

“This isn’t fair!”

“Describe them.”

Lance points to the front of the diner at an old woman with a straw hat without needing to look, “One has a flower; the one the lady’s wearing. One has a picture of some kinda lion,” Lance continues, thinking of the old, weird trucker with the crooked tooth, “and the last one is on the chef.”

“What about the beanie?” Lance’s dad demands.

“A beanie’s a cap, not a hat.”

“Alright,” Lance’s dad relents after a pause, “Open your eyes.”

“Amazing, Lance!” Isabella congratulates. “You’re going to be a great detective, just like Papi!”

“Thanks, Bella. But I’m not going to be a stupid cop, and you can’t have any of my cake.”

Lance’s dad rolls his eyes.

 

Present Day

The boy groans against Lance’s mouth again. Lance pulls him into his apartment, nudges the door closed with his hip.

“God, I knew I had to buy you a drink,” The boy sighs. Lance hums in response, his hands roaming beneath the boy’s shirt. He pulls him onto the sofa, accidentally hitting the remote, and the weather comes on. Scratch that, the news.

The boy’s in his lap, sloppily leaving hickeys up and down Lance’s neck, but Lance is suddenly distracted by the TV.

“Joe, do the police have any leads at this time?” The busty news anchor is asking a pale, short, squat man. 

“We’re at a loss,” the man tells her, his hands clenching against his black plaid shit. “We don’t know what else to do. It’s been a tough few weeks, and we’ve basically run out of ideas. Hopefully, the police will be able to crack this one.”

Lance narrows his eyes. Come on. The hands are such a tell, the guy can’t meet the anchorwoman’s eyes, and, Dios, he’s sweating buckets. (And what an unfortunate hairline, to top it off.)

The anchorwoman’s continuing, but Lance has stopped paying attention again. He’s more focused on shifting over towards his cellphone, which he’d set down on the coffee table. The guy in his lap is making this very difficult though, and the friction leaning forwards is giving Lance… Dios… 

“Ooh,” Lance picks up his cell.

“What’re you doing?” The boy murmurs, rolling his hips. Fuck.

“I’m calling the police,” Lance all but pants.

“Any particular reason?” The guy’s sitting up, his face flushed.

“I think they just closed a case,” Lance gestures at the TV with his cell. The boy smirks, pupils wide.

“You didn't tell me you’re a cop.”

“Oh, no, no, no, definitely not a cop,” Lance shakes his head. “Does that disappoint you?”

“I just thought you might have… handcuffs.” The boy shrugs.

“Oh, I have handcuffs,” Lance assures him, playing with the boy’s belt buckle. “Hello?” He says into the phone, “It’s the store manager. He did it.”

“Pardon me?” A woman on the other line asks. The boy in his lap now has both his and Lance’s pants off.

“The tv robberies at the chain store? It was the manager. He’s on channel 8 news right now.”

The boy’s squirming out of Lance’s lap, dropping to his knees.  
“I see,” the woman on the phone says, “And your name is?”

“Lance… McClain!” Lance gasps with difficulty.


End file.
